The Gloves Are Coming Off
by Kirawr
Summary: Hermione is back at Hogwarts for her final year after the war, but another familiar face has also returned. Stuck in self defence class with Draco Malfoy, the two will find themselves struggling to keep up their facade of disdain for much longer, especially after their Head Mistress in all her wisdom, has appointed them Head Boy and Head Girl
1. Chapter 1

As she studied the castle that had been her home for so long, Hermione noted the absence of familiar faces and structures, and took an interest in the new and refurbished. The war had taken its toll on the grounds, but it was healing, and so was she. Hermione had returned for her final year in the magical place, though she did so without her two best friends. Harry and Ronald were Aurors in training now, but she had always dreamed of a more academically inclined career path.

Returning had been disorientating. Half the castle had been rebuilt, the curriculum totally re-calculated, and as many new students as missing ones. Professor Mcgonagall was their new headmistress, and Hermione found the changes dizzying.

One of the new adjustments to classes involved a self defence class: the magical world was moving on, trying not to rely on their wands for everything. The school board was forced to acknowledge that magic was not the answer to everything, and that bodily health should be taken more seriously.

Hermione signed up for the class almost immediately; she'd already filled in her main subjects, and her time in the war threw up some much needed reflection on her physical fitness. Unfortunately, she soon realised that her lack of practice might well bring her down a grade point average.

It was two months into the term, and Hermione was trying her best to avoid that happening. In the middle of a session, an epiphany came over her, and she was shocked to realise that she'd spent more time in the gym than she had the library. It made her pause in her assault of the punching bag, and reflect for a moment.

Draco Malfoy chose that moment to come down the stairs into the cellar that had been renovated into a boxing room. Class started soon, she realised, and she'd already been there all morning. Malfoy didn't walk with the cocky swagger he used to employ. Since the war, he had become much more serious, though no less antagonising. He strode into the room, glancing around, his eyes briefly resting on her before quickly diverting them ahead, showing only a flicker of interest before shoving his bag into a locker. _He wasn't in her class, why was he here?_ Potions kicked the curriculum up a notch around week nine, she mused, he probably had to adjust his schedule. She hadn't seen much of him since their return. This was going to be interesting, she thought wearily.

* * *

He felt like he must be shaking. Was he shaking? He tried his best to just walk straight in, without looking like a first year at the sorting stall. He knew she was there, as soon as he entered the room he felt her presence. He couldn't help it, he had to steal a glance, she probably wouldn't be looking at him anyway. His eyes scanned over and saw her. Damn, she _was_ looking. He glanced away, but he could still see her in his mind. She sported a black tank top and dark running shorts, the material clinging to her perfectly sculptured legs and running up over her- No. Stop. He couldn't focus on her bright eyes, or the artful pony tail she'd thrown her hair into, or the fact that he wished the sheen of sweat she wore was his doing, in a much more intimate context.

When he found out what class she was in, he couldn't help himself, he'd made the switch. He didn't know why he did it, it was ridiculous, the girl hated him. For good reason. Yet he found himself inexplicitly drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, despite the fact he might very well catch fire.

It had started around the time she'd punched him in the face.

It was ridiculous, but she had been the first person to stand her ground him. Empty threats and bitter words, sure, but nobody had ever dared touch him before.

But the fact was that his father had always hammered it into him that people of muggle heritage were inferior, and he must admit, it had rubbed off. Not completely, though. Despite the common prejudice, there were people of mixed birth in Slytherin, and he had become friendly with several. Li was kind, and always helped him with his work in herbology. Zandi was in quidditch with him, and they enjoyed discussions and debates about novels and philosophy on regular occasions.

But Hermione Granger was different, not only were both her parents muggles, but she was best friends with Harry Potter. A boy who made it perfectly clear what he thought about his offer of friendship the first time they met. She also happened to be the smartest person in his year, if not the entire school.

In his private primary before Hogwarts, Draco had risen to the top, yet as soon as they set foot on the Scottish grounds, Hermione had surpassed him at every turn. It made it oh so easy to hate her.

His hostility had started to fade when he got a little older, as saw his father as he truly was, cruel, selfish, and somewhat mentally imbalanced. He saw what he did to his mother, emotionally, and occasionally physically. He recognised how backwards some of his opinions were. As he matured, he stopped idolising his father. He saw him as foolish and narrow minded.

Although it undermined his fathers beliefs, this realisation could not undo the years of conditioning of Draco's mind. Half bloods were mudbloods. They had dirt in their veins. It was what he had always thought, deep down, and probably always would.

He couldn't do anything about his natural reactions, though. Despite his beliefs, his deep set bias, he couldn't help but watch Hermione more and more. It started as admiration for her courage. Gryffindor courage, he supposed, though she was the first to show him any evidence of that label. But this also coupled with her intelligence._ The brightest witch of their age._ Those words came to him in a dream one night, and they never left. He was sure those words belonged to her. As they grew, he noticed a physical change in her, too. She could no longer hide behind untamed hair and baggy robes. Her natural beauty expressed itself without warning. He still remembered her at the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. His mind couldn't even conjure up a satisfactory expression to do her justice. He could only feel a deep envy for the arms of Victor Krum.

Yet none of this had mattered. Although he acknowledged his father as stupid and backwards, he was still very dangerous. There was no telling what he would do if he brought home a girl any other than one of a select few pureblood society sweethearts. Besides, the damage had been done, Hermione had learned to hate him as much as Potter had. He had done it himself, mostly.

Today it was a different story. His father was in Askaban, as he should be, his mother was a secret hero of the resistance, and Hermione no longer hated him. She simply held an overwhelming disdain. Great.

"Alright, guys! Huddle up!" Without noticing, the class had filled up, and the coach had walked into their midst. Hermione had made her way toward them, and when she glanced in his direction, he automatically scowled, just as she did. Urgh. Why was this so hard. Just. Smile. But she was already looking away, toward the teacher, as always.

* * *

Hermione had caught his eye again. She wasn't sure if he gave her a glower first, or if it was in response to hers, but it filled her with exasperation. Why did he have to come back for a last year? Did he have no shame after the war? And why did he have to return looking so miserable? It was a lot easier to hate him when he was a snarky kid. Now he was a war worn man, and he seemed so much more sombre than he used to, especially without his idiotic side-kicks hanging around. He'd stopped gelling his hair back in that pretentious way, now it flopped over his eyes in a kind of stylish mess. She had to stop herself from staring at the filled out torso beneath his shirt. _What are you thinking?_ She berated herself.

"Has anybody tried out move sixteen yet?" The coach asked, her steely grey eyes resting on the class. Hermione's hand automatically shot up. She had, of course, tried twenty four of the moves already, and perfected twenty. Just because the class wasn't strictly academic didn't mean she couldn't get ahead. She was at the gym twice for every time her training class came around.

She heard a soft laugh, and she swivelled around to search for the source. Draco Malfoy was there, and his expression turned to mirror her irritation in kind. "What?" She spat.

He looked at her for a moment in silence, and for a second she didn't think he'd reply, then he seemed to gather himself up, "Well," He drawled, "this isn't a class you can just nerd out on. You might "know" the move, but look at you, you're not exactly a formidable opponent."

Hermione felt herself going red, but not with embarrassment. She was furious. She was a fighter, despite her small stature.

She looked to the coach for support, but she only looked on with bemusement.

"Aren't you going to do anything?" Hermione questioned, annoyed that once again, her teachers seemed to let Malfoy away with saying whatever he wished.

"There's a clear solution, that I can see." She barked out a laugh.

Malfoy looked at her for a moment, confused, before a look of dawning apprehension appeared on his face. Hermione still didn't get it, but she was about to.

"Saddle up, into the ring, you two." She stated, leaning back on a pillar, arms crossed, eyes on the boxing ring in the middle of the room.

She was wrapping her wrists, focusing on the automatic procedure instead of looking up at him. On the other side of the ring, he leaned against the ropes casually, but there was an air of uncertainty about him.

"All right," Their coach yelled, "I want a clean fight. No broken bones, preferably." Their teachers seemed a lot less concerned about scrapes and bruises on their students now, especially the older ones. They were hardly children any more, after felling foe after foe in a battle that would taint their history books forever.

Hermione's eyes levelled to meet his, and they met hers with an unreadable stare. They approached each other cautiously. "Remember that throwing books isn't a valid move, Granger." He smirked.

She narrowed her gaze, "Remember that getting your house elf to do it for you isn't either, Malfoy."

His face went red at the slight, "You wouldn't know the first thing about help. I doubt your dental parents could afford any."

Hermione was momentarily thrown off, he remembered what her parents did for a living? A muggle profession, at that. She recovered quickly, however absorbing the insult. "Some people don't need help. Still getting tutored off Li? Pretty sure I still beat you in every test." By this time, they were toe to toe, their faces inches from another, though she had to look up to meet his. She could feel his warm breath on her skin, his steel grey eyes narrowing. She felt her jaw clench, breathing deeply through her nose, her chest heaving with anxiety and anger.

"That's about to change." He murmured.

It was at that moment that the coach sighed impatiently, ringing the bell with a sharp _trill._


	2. Chapter 2

He moved toward her, almost immediately curtailing to her left. She danced out of the way, striking his rib with a jab as she twisted. She heard him swear under his breath, turning toward her once more. They stood motionless for a moment as they sized each other up. Before he could make a move, she flew forward, making to deliver an undercut. He was too quick. He took a lithe hop backwards, just out of reach of the blow. His back was against the ring ropes now. She pursued the step, fists raised just below her chin.

Hermione struck out toward his jaw. Malfoy ducked quickly, not expecting the knee that came up to meet his nose. He cussed more loudly this time. Before she could offer another blow, he stumbled to her left, wiping the blood that had trickled down his mouth with the back of his wrist. His eyes had feverous quality as he stared her down.

Without warning, he raged forward, she moved, but no quickly enough. They traded ducks and blows, though none enough serious to do any real harm, before Malfoy managed to land a kick to her stomach that left her winded. As she went to double over, the heel of his hand found her shoulder and knocked her off balance. Pain surged through the bruised collar bone, and she went down on one knee, clutching the damage. Her face was pointed downwards. She watched the floor, pretending not to notice as he gained on her. A moment before he could strike the finishing blow, she spun out, her leg straightening to catch the back of his knee, and he went down. She gained her footing once more, rolling onto the balls of her feet without hesitation and executing a second kick, this time to his chest. He fell onto his back. She got a good look at him, then. His platinum perfect hair was matted with perspiration, blood and sweat sticking strands to his flushed cheeks. She approached slowly, reveling in her victory. He looked defeated, and she opened her mouth to make a quip.

She never got it out. Though on the floor not a moment prior, he managed to leap back onto his feet, and launched himself into an unchivalrous tackle. She was not braced for the impact, and was swept off her feet, landing square on her own back. The breath left her in a rush. Draco pulled back a fist but stopped short. He had her pinned to the floor, and had clearly won. Their chests were heaving, sweat soaking through their clothes and setting a glistening sheen over their skin. Their eyes met with an animalistic intensity, and it took a moment for both of them to remember where they were. Draco seemed to catch himself first. He realised his that fist was still poised and lowered it almost sheepishly.

That was when the class began to clap. It was like a bucket of cold water over their heads, and they jumped apart like the mere touch was an electric shock. Hermione fled, ducking under the ropes while Draco leapt over them, landing like a cat on the gym floor. _I was supposed to be the lion. _She thought, though she couldn't conjurer as much bitterness as usual, her mind elsewhere.

Seamus clapped her on the back, which made her wince. The ache overcame her body then, unbidden. The coach pulled out her wand and went to her, but she waved her on, "I'm pretty sure I broke his nose, miss. Best get on that first."

Maddy whistled, putting her hands on her hips. "Wow, you guys must really _hate _each other! What is it with you Griffindors and Slytherins?"

"Just nature, I guess." Hermione strained through her teeth, watching the man at the other end of room. The coach was working on his face and bruises, but every once in a while he would glance up at her, those steely grey eyes fixed with a war of emotions burning inside.

* * *

He was sitting in the great hall, his midday coffee in one hand and the Odyssey open in the other. It was a muggle story, from the ancient Greeks. He supposed the author _could_ have been a wizard, given the lack of documentation back then. He told himself that to justify his curiosity when he picked it out of the library. The current chapter spoke of a place called Troy, and supposedly the most beautiful woman on earth, Helen. He was more curious about her daughter, though she was not much of a instrumental character.

He was snapped out the epic by the sound of fluttering paper. Looking up, he found himself face to face with a beige howler._ Well, at least it wasn't a red one_. It opened itself and spoke with the Head Mistress's Scottish articulation. "Mr. Malfoy, please report to my office at two o'clock. I would appreciate a punctual arrival." The piece of paper tore itself up. That might have been the most vanilla howler he'd ever received. He felt somewhat disappointed. Looking at the clock, he realised he had less than twenty minutes to get halfway across the castle. Packing up his bag and downing the remains of his caffeine fix, he set off.

The castle had an eerie beauty to it, now. It was full of life, yet scarred by so much death. In many ways it was the same place he grew up, and in other ways there was a world of difference. He passed where the Room of Requirement sometimes opened, and a nightmare came flooding back. Screaming. The sound of crackling flames and panicking cornwall pixies. Screaming. Goyle falling to his death, engulfed by a wildfire. The whistling of brooms. Screaming. The shattering of glass. Screaming.

He was a cruel child, and as an adult he was even more so. Nevertheless, Gregory had grown up with him, they'd learned to ride brooms together, shared their first chocolate frogs when they were six, swapped wizard trading cards at the age of nine. Went to Ollivanders to get their wands at ten. He remembered the excitement they had when they were at the sorting hat at eleven. Crabbe and him had drifted apart, and he only became friends Blaise at sixteen. But Goyle was there throughout. Flawed as he was.

His steps had taken him halfway across the castle, and most of the paintings on the walls there knew him. Mostly, they kept to themselves, occasionally he would be greeted by glares, but there were a few that were kind. The Lady in Red smiled as he passed, "Afternoon, Draco." He nodded back to her. A little further on, the Werechild gave him a wolfish grin, and the Three Maidens giggled. Eventually, he reached the Gargoyles that marked the Head Mistress's office. He wondered for a moment how he would get by without a password. He had an idea of what it would be, it was worth a try. He opened his mouth, "Albus Dumbledore."

But the words had not come from him. He started. Swinging around, he found himself face to face with Granger. She gave little indication of her emotions, giving him a stiff acknowledgement before climbing the stairs that had lowered themselves onto the ground. He had no choice but to follow.

They entered the office, where McGonagall sat behind a huge mahogany desk with a quill and parchment, though she looked up upon their arrival. The portraits of all the past headmasters decorated the walls, most of them pretending to doze off. He saw that Dumbledore was there, with his eyes drooping shut, as was Professor Snape, who looked on with an impassive expression, no pretence at fatigue.

"Ah, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy, have a seat." She gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk.

They did. Granger began before she could even start her reprimand, "It won't happen again, Professor. I shouldn't have reacted to him. It was childish an-"

McGonagall cut her off. "Miss Granger, we're not here to talk about the incident in your self defence class. You shouldn't have gotten into a verbal altercation, admittedly, but I can't very well punish you for that."

"But the fight-"

"Was by Madam Kurin's sanction. You're not here to answer for that."

"Then what _are _we here for?" He queried. Whatever it was, he just wanted it to be over with so he could go back to his book.

"As you both know, there have been a great many changes within the school over the last few months, the many alterations and changes under scrutiny have made it difficult to provide much order. With new classes, new students -both the first years and the exchanges- new teaches and new renovations, many aspects on the agenda have been left until a certain stability had been obtained. This includes the reprisal of some traditional roles. You two are here because we have decided to retain one of our oldest and most prestigious positions."

"Meaning...?" He was running out of patience, and there was only so long he could spend in a room with Hermione without letting himself look at her.

"She..." He finally looked over at Granger, who was staring at him with wide eyes, "She wants us to be Head Girl and Head Boy." It came out in a whisper.

His head spun round to McGonagall. Could it be? He'd assumed that Hogwarts wouldn't be renewing those roles this year. Heads were usually contacted during the summer months, and announced at the sorting hat with the first years. McGonagall made no answer, but to slide two badges across the desk toward them. One was shimmering silver and forest green, with the words "Head Boy" in gold glimmering under the enamel. The other was crimson red and a sandy gold, with "Head Girl" printed in the same way.

There was nothing but silence for a few moments. Head boy? Two years ago, he didn't even think he'd live to be in his last year here, never mind actually attend. But to be Head Boy? He'd always done well grade wise, sure. Yes, he'd been a prefect, but that was under Umbridge. He needed the extra credit at the time; his father had just been called out as a death eater by the boy wonder, and his home life had gone to shit. He'd had to be a constant crutch for his mother, who was bearing the brunt of his father's fury, and neither did she escape the gossip of the press. The stress had made an impact on his grades, and his attitude. _Head Boy?_ He repeated to himself. He was the son of a death eater, the boy who'd almost killed Dumbledore. The teenager who'd let murders into the school. How McGonagall forgive him? He couldn't forgive _himself._

He looked over to Hermione, her soft brown eyes were glistening with happiness. It was an expression of sheer wonder that graced her features. She looked to him, and in that moment forgot to scowl.

"Of course, you'll be moved to your new accommodation as soon as you gather your possessions."

"What?" He jumped, surprised. The old prefects dorms had been destroyed in one of the blasts. The last he'd seen, the rubble had been cleared and left no trace of it's existence. If he wasn't mistaken, Sprout had set up a new greenhouse over the grounds where it once stood. "I thought the prefects were living in their house dorms now?" His tone made it a question.

"The prefects are, Mr. Malfoy. The Heads, however, have had two rooms refurbished for them in the South Wing."

Before the battle, there had been a tower for the prefects and heads. They had all lived together, though in segregated levels according to gender. He'd sneaked in, once, though the Percy Weasel had found him and deducted thirty points from Slytherin.

"Mr Filch will escort you to them once you have packed." The Head Mistress said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, "Report back to me on Tuesday for a run down of your duties."

They stood up to go, as he reached the stairs, he took a glance back. McGonagall was looking back down at the parchment in front of her, and the portraits were either peering down at the paper or watching the two of them leave. The ones who were watching him averted their eyes, as if they hadn't been caught spying, all but one. Professor Snape kept his gaze, and with a slight nod, he expressed something that his own father had never given him. Pride.


	3. Chapter 3

By half three, Draco had packed up his life into a large suitcase, though he'd had to carry his chess set under arm after he'd run out of space. Filch met the two of them outside of the entrance to the grand hall; a mid way point between the Gryffindor and Slytherin common rooms.

Hermione was already there, of course, sitting primly on her suitcase, cross legged and with a false air of indifference; he could see her buzzing with excitement under the bravado.

"It took you long enough." She sighed.

He narrowed his eyes, "I actually have possessions to my name, Granger."

"Well I actually had friends to say goodbye to, but it didn't take me an_ hour." _She retorted.

It was meant somewhat lightly, but he turned away so she wouldn't see the flash of pain that crossed his features. It wasn't untrue, most of his friends left school after the battle; too many personal tragedies and remaining suspicion for even those that were completely uninvolved, parents were scared of bullying and the viciousness of children. Of course, there were also those who had family alliances with He Who Should Not Be Named, many of them had gone into hiding, or to live with distant relatives. He knew that Blaise was in France, attending his last year at Beauxbatons, and that Abigail was in Sunstags, on the East Coast of North America. One of the reasons Draco insisted on returning to Hogwarts for his last year was to set an example; to give courage to those hesitant to return to school. If he, a Malfoy, could do it, and perhaps even do well for himself, then anybody could.

"Let's get a move on." Filch grumbled roughly.

They followed him through the castle to the South Wing, up a winding staircase and along a high balcony until they reached a large oaken door. Filch fumbled in his pocket for a moment and withdrew a large key, inserting it into the lock and turning.

The door swung wide and the sight made the two of them gasp. There was a large room with a roaring fireplace, a sofa, several sofa chairs and the front wall lined with books. The room was decorated in a neutral deep purple, and their house words in Latin were on either side of the room on intricate tapestries. There was a door on every wall, the one at the back was centred and open, Hermione went in for a closer look and clapped her hands over her mouth, it was a massive bathroom with deep charcoal tiles and a huge bathtub in the centre, as well as a smaller corner one to the back left and a misted glass showering unit to the right. Alongside one of the walls was a large mirror and two shelves for whatever toiletries needed to be stocked there.

She suddenly remembered that she had a new bedroom to check out, and turned quickly, almost colliding with Malfoy as she did so. They stood face to face for a moment, both of their eyes shining with excitement that became startled at their proximity. The scent of him took her back to their fight the day before, his eyes that shone with intensity suddenly bright and excited and his breath that felt warm on her skin. She shook herself.

"Sorry" she mumbled, skirting around him, he turned with her, their bodies twisting together like a shadow of a dance.

Hurrying to what she presumed was her room, given the polished engraving of a lion into the wooden door, she opened it and slammed it shut behind her. She closed her eyes, taking a calming breath and reopened them.

Her mouth opened and closed silently. Her room was beautiful. It had a small fireplace of it's own, a large canopied bed and a deep red and gold finish. She had a huge dresser which she had no idea how to fully employ, and a cupboard she couldn't possibly fill.

She began to unpack- mostly for something to do, something to keep her mind off the Slytherin on the other side of her door. She opened her wardrobe and felt another burst of happiness, she'd been gifted three sets of new robes! They had a stitching of "Hermione Granger" under the side pocket, and were all beautifully high quality garments and comfortable, lined with the deep crimson of her house. Hogwarts clearly couldn't have their head students wearing anything less than the best, though she was sure that Malfoy already had Egyptian cotton with silk trimmings or something equally as extravagant.

She sighed, annoyed that her mind had drifted back to him, and continued unpacking.

Draco entered his room, with it's emerald green and silver set up, and groaned. He'd lived with that damn colour scheme his entire life, would they calm down with the fucking colour coding? It wasn't that he didn't like the colours, but they were everywhere. All the time. He pulled out his wand and closed his eyes, he didn't know what he wanted, but it needed to be different. He flicked out and opened his eyes for the result, if he didn't like it, he could simply change it again. His mind had made a peculiar choice; the wall at the back of his bed was a deep, chocolate brown, and the other three were reminiscent of coffee beans. He wasn't sure why he chose those colours, but they were nice, and he arranged the rest of the room to follow the pattern, beige, browns, wooden furniture. He altered his sheets emerald colour to a more earthy green, to keep up appearances but fit the room's new set up. By the time he left, he found Granger sitting curled up in one of the sofa chairs, a book in hand, of course.

He rolled his eyes, looking around for the Odyssey. It wasn't were he left it. He looked again at Granger who had an eyebrow raised above the book. _His book. _

"Hey, hands off." This is starting off promisingly, he thought, irritated.

"Why are you reading a muggle book?" She asked, dubiously.

He didn't have a good answer to that, so he shrugged nonchalantly, "I'll have you know that Homer was actually a pureblood." He bluffed.

She looked doubtful, but didn't respond. "What's up with the book folds?" there were small pieces of paper stuck in various places within the book.

"Nothing." He snapped, quickly, taking it from her hands.

She shook her head, exasperated. Lifting herself up to fetch something else to read.

Draco sat on the sofa, silently pulling the small markers out and dropping them on the coffee table next to him.

The next week, the two of them were in class, keeping both eyes locked on the teacher, the other students, the room; basically anything but each other. Everyone was split into pairs to spar, and Draco saw Martin Kim get matched with Hermione, and he was so irritated that he missed who he was put with, and had to find the annoyed looking Gryffindor in the crowd.

Their living arrangements had been fairly harmonious, so far. She had early morning classes which he slept through, heading to his just before she arrived back. They missed each other at lunch, due to the nature of the house separation, and both went straight to their rooms, exhausted. News of Draco's new-found position among Hogwarts had garnered quite a bit of interest, that awful woman Reeta Skeeta had even written a piece on it. On the bright side, he had already heard of several Slytherins who were planning to return, either mid term or next year. Apparently it had given people a certain confidence again, something taken from his peers during the war.

By the end of the class, there was nothing to do but pack up and head back. He found himself in the exiting crowd and found his arm tingling as it brushed someone. He glanced aside, confused, and realised that Hermione was the one beside him. She hadn't noticed him, but would soon as the crowd dissipated. He took a moment before he looked away, admiring the glow to her skin, and her messy hair that became even more wild with exercise. He quickly looked ahead, but they were clearly going in the same direction, back to their shared room.

She noticed him, then. She looked up and gave a polite smile. Damn. That fucking smile. One day he'd make it reach her eyes. He mentally slapped himself. Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.

He couldn't wait to get a shower, as soon as they entered their dorm, he went and grabbed his towel, wrapping it around himself. Coming out into the common room, he saw that Granger had had the same thought. She had a towel draped around her body, her perfectly imperfect body standing unceremoniously, half toward him. She raised an eyebrow, looking at him dubiously.

"Well somebody's going to have to change."

He let a laugh slip through his demeanour. It was hard not to, her doe eyes lightly narrowed her nose wrinkled in a purse. Her expression changed into something unreadable, almost surprise, but more welcoming than that. She took the moment to rush into the bathroom, leaving him realising that he was half naked in front of a women that he seemed to be falling that bit deeper for every glance.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione was bleary eyed when she woke up the next day, as she clumsily pulled on her clothes and casual robes. She'd been up late studying, and as it was the weekend, she decided that she could sleep in a little more than usual. However, she was heavily motivated by the idea of her morning tea. She could almost smell it already. Opening her door, she stopped short.

Malfoy was already up, he was still reading the Odyssey, lounging across the sofa. He looked meticulous, as usual, and she felt uncharacteristically self-concious. Her hair was messy and her eyes still had sleep in their crevices. She was surprised at her own sudden body monitoring, but something shocked her even more. On the table was a large pot of tea with not one, but two cups sitting out. Malfoy looked up, his face a mask of indifference.

"Tea?" He said, off handedly, looking back at his book.

She was dumbfounded by this small act of kindness. "Uh- yeah, thanks."

She took a cup gratefully, glad that she didn't have to go through the effort of lighting the fire and putting a pot on herself. Not for the first time, she thought about what it would be like to have electricity at Hogwarts. The kettle she'd had at home was so much faster. She quickly dismissed the thought, though. There was something quintessentially beautiful about Hogwarts in it's inability to sustain electric signals. The high magical energy on the grounds interfered too much with the opposing frequencies. She fondly recalled a time when one of the muggle-born students had sneaked in his gameboy, and consequently spent the next four days only able to make the pac-man "wagawagawaga" noise come out of his mouth. Eventually, Madam Pomfrey had conferenced with Professor Burbage, the muggle studies teacher, and they'd somehow worked out how to rectify the situation.

At a loss in the silence, Hermione decided to remind Draco of the incident, though he didn't quite get the humour as she did, having never heard of pacman. She gave one last laugh as she finished the story. He'd been looking over his book at her, with a slightly quizzical expression, but at the mention of Burbage, his eyes took on a haunted shadow.

He immediately looked down at his book, and Hermione furrowed her brow. "Malfoy, what's wro-"

"Nothing." He answered huskily.

There was an awkward silence while Hermione racked her brain to the issue at hand. Vaguely, she remembered that she'd seen the name "Charity Burbage" on the war monument in the main quadrangle of Hogwarts. It must have meant her. She wasn't sure why it had struck such a deep cord within him, however. Many people died in the Battle of Hogwarts, it was a hard topic, but something that had become almost numb in it's numbers.

"Did you... Did you see what happened to her?" She thought of a possibility.

She saw the top of his head nod over the page.

She understood. There was so much chaos on the groud that she had never had a close look at anything happening to somebody in their last moment, and she spent half of the battle searching for Harry or being down in the Chamber of Secrets.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, gently. He didn't respond, she was sure that he was going to ignore her when after a minute, he set down the book and sat up. He had his arms resting on his legs, and he was quiet for another moment, before he took a deep breath.

"During the war, Voldemort turned against our family. We'd - _I'd –_ fucked up too many times. My father pulled me in deeper, to try and persuade him that we were still committed to the cause." This wasn't really going in the direction she imagined, and she wondered where it was going, "I was taken to conferences and had to sit and listen." He shuddered. "I arrived one day, and... Burbage was there."

Hermione was getting an increasingly bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. Why would the muggle studies teacher be at a gathering of Death Eaters?

"She was being held in a levitated state." He murmured, "Voldemort wanted some fucked up morale boost or something, because he made some bullshit speech about blood purity and then-" the last word caught in his throat.

"...Used an unspeakable curse on her?" Hermione prompted, quietly.

"He fed her to his fucking snake." She sucked in a tight breath. The horror of that moment must have haunted him immeasurably. She had always assumed that Draco flew through the war with relative ease, a golden boy of the Malfoy family; on the side of the darkness but not punished by the light. He'd even gotten the dark mark, it never occurred to her that this was a desperate last bid of loyalty. It was on show, now, faded and grey, the long sleeves of his black t-shirt not quite covering it.

He looked into her eyes, then. He suddenly seemed harder, angrier. "I knew then that if I ever got the chance to take him down, I would. She was a good teacher. Burbage was patient to a fault, even when I was a twat. It became so clear that she was only an example of the thousands that would, and were, dying because of this lunatic. When you, Weasley and Potter were taken to the manor, I couldn't have Voldemort kill you three. You were the only hope of ending his miserable existence, so... I lied." His expression turned pained, and he looked into her eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry for what my Aunt did to you." He scratched out.

Her lips upturned at the corners, though the memory had triggered many panic attacks in the past. "You couldn't have done anything to stop it, I know that, Draco. And hey," she pulled up her sleeve, "we both have our marks, now." He laughed hollowly, tugging at his own to reveal the remaining ink. On closer inspection, she saw how he had tried in vain to pick it off, like one might a muggle tattoo. There were old small scars and newer, angry red marks, but the ink remained unblemished.

There was a knock at the door, and as if a veil had lifted, they realised that they'd been leaning in a very intimate position, face to face. They both jumped, and Hermione stood to answer the caller. Usually it was an acquaintance of hers, dropping by to say hello, or a teacher handing over some work schedules for the prefects. She was surprised to come face to face with Madam Kurin.

"Granger." She barked, "I'll get straight to the point, as it's a Saturday. The WMA is coming up, and I believe that you and Mr Malfoy both have the competence to fight in the under 20s category."

Hermione looked stumped, and it was Draco that stood and came up behind her to reply "Fight? What is this about?"

Kurin sighed, sounding vaguely irritated by their confusion. "Applications for the Wizards Martial Art tournament. It is a renowned competition in the right circles," she looked squarely at them, "and there is a cash prize at the end. Five hundred gaellons." She finished promptly. Hermione gasped. Five hundred gaellons. Since she had obliviated her parent's memories, she had had nothing to rely on but her own savings. She had saved her money since she was a child, but she knew that as soon as she left Hogwarts, it would be taken away with something as simple as a month's rent.

"Well. You interested?" She said promptly, slightly impatient.

"Huh. You know what? I am." Draco answered, straightening up.

Hermione just nodded silently, seemingly at a loss for words. With that, Kurin told them to be in the training room at least once a day.

"You have a lot of work to do." She finished, looking them up and down before turning on her heel and leaving.

Hermione spent that afternoon reading up on the WMA, a sport which held underground esteem in the wizarding world. It consisted mostly of muggleborns, given their exposure to the muggle practice of martial art tournaments, and the gap in the market for a version closer to home. The first WMA had begun in 1963, after the sport had taken off around the world. There were six rounds, tapered down dramatically throughout. You were allowed to use any form of martial arts, mixed or otherwise, and typically faced one opponent each fight. They usually took place in magically altered arenas, though there were strict rules against creating your own. No wands, brooms or spells, hexes, potions or otherwise imbued objects or artefacts. You may be required to utilise the surrounding area, though, in complacency with the guidelines.

Hermione and Draco spent that evening in the gym. It was odd, being in there alone. It was past time for the open use, but Kurin had given them both the permission and the keys to go there whenever they needed to. Since there was nobody else around, they began warming up with the punching bags, moving onto the Muk Yan Jong; a wooden dummy with posts that represented the human body. As there were no other potential sparring partners, however, they eventually had to turn and face each other.

"Can I have this dance?" Malfoy said, eyebrow raised in a light mocking tone.

"Certainly, good sir." She replied, equally as sarcastically; clearly their earlier moment was past.

They leapt into the ring and stood at their opposing sides, eyes meeting. She broke contact and gave a sardonic bow. He reflected back, and with a small nod, they went for each other.

He pushed forward, stretching a high kick aimed at her face. She took a step back, feeling the air brush past her skin. She regained her step, though, ducking under his leg and grasping his ankle while he did so, twisting so that his body convulsed forward. He was strong, and jerked out of her grip, throwing her own balance off while he did so. She fell back, though her arm stuck out behind her and sprung herself upright.

He spun to face her, and once more took the offensive, he brought up the heel of his hand as she stepped into the danger zone and knocked her jaw shut. She tasted the metallic sensation of blood and found drive in it. She landed a foot into the side of his ribs, following up with a kick to his stomach, and though he tried to grab her, she had already anticipated the move, and reached out to take his hand, bending it backwards at an unnatural angle. He hissed, yanking away and grabbing her arm, pulling her forward to knee in the solar plexus. She seemed to come too easy, however, and he realised that she had seen a far more painful place to land a blow. Hermione brought her knee up to his groin, fast, efficiently and hard. He steadied himself for anguish when she stopped short, just shy of his member. Without hesitation, she drew her next move as she twisted and her elbow stuck down on his collar bone. He staggered, dropping to one knee. Instantly, he was getting himself back up, about to use that knee again to land another hit.

Hermione kicked out at that leg so that he buckled once again, and this time she pursued with a nerve pinch at his collar, he thrashed with the pain, falling backwards. When he had had quite enough, he attempted to wrestle free. Hermione threw her body weight into keeping him down, though he was stronger and managed to release himself from her grasp. His arms drew to grab her own, and he attempted to turn the tables. She hadn't given up yet, however, and she clamped her legs around his to keep him on the floor. They struggled for a minute, giving and as much as they got, he tried to use his legs to break free to the right then to the left, but the angle was awkward and she had the upper hand. Finally, he had a burst of inspiration and brought his legs toward him, practically throwing Hermione over his head. She landed on her back, winding herself. By the time she tried to get up, Draco had turned and threw himself down with a body slam onto her. She was knocked to the floor, and he grabbed her hands, holding them above her head.

He stopped, her chest was heaving, her clothes soaked and her face flushed. He realised that he was straddling her, and he could feel her eyes on him. Hermione had never been in quite such an intimate position, and was not prepared for the sensations that ran down her body. While they were both aching from the pain, she felt an ache in a very different part of her body, responding to his body's very physical betrayal.

He seemed to realise at the same time she did, and suddenly cleared his throat, releasing his grasp and moving to get off of her. She was taken aback by her own disappointment, and quickly followed suit, her eyes taking a last glance at the situation before turning back and leaving the ring, grabbing her bag from the locker and fleeing the scene.

Draco stood there, his mind still hazy from a mixture of adrenaline, pain, and yeah, desire.


End file.
